


Late-Night Correspondence

by Madtom_Publius



Series: Valley Forge [11]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Late Night Writing, M/M, enslaved character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:23:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7111300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madtom_Publius/pseuds/Madtom_Publius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton has been kept up several nights working on correspondence for Washington, and weariness catches up to him. Laurens helps share his burden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late-Night Correspondence

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by publius-esquire

Alexander rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his knuckles, trying desperately to massage the sleep from them, but the weariness was only worsened when William Lee replaced the dim candle on the table. It left him half asleep at his desk as he continued to pour over French correspondence. Hamilton berated himself for displaying weakness in front of the General, who increasingly seemed to have no toleration for human frailties; poor Billy was moving as if the floor were made of thin ice around Washington after he had blown up at him for accidentally spilling some wine from His Excellency’s glass earlier that evening, earning everyone in the room a lecture on wasting provisions. 

But Hamilton bit his tongue as Washington handed him four more letters to translate. Beside him, Laurens graciously accepted one of the drafts. Having two aides did help but Alexander still felt annoyed when their leader handed his empty glass to Lee and stood from the table before addressing his soldiers: “Get some rest once you’re finished with those,” he instructed as he retired. 

Once General Washington was out of earshot, Hamilton muttered, “As if it were some concession to let his workers rest.”

Lee resisted the urger to respond that what Hamilton suffered was minuscule compared to what Washington daily expected of him, and instead put on the face expected of him and asked, “Would either of you require anything?”

It was Laurens who lifted his head and said, “No. You can retire.”

All the better, Lee thought as he exited the room. After all, Maggie did hate if he couldn’t visit her at least once before the morning, his duties be damned.

Once they were alone, Laurens took another one of the documents and busily set about translating. John never seemed to mind his subordination; although desk work was unsatisfying to one so starved for glory, at times he appeared as thrilled as the Marquis to serve his general in any possible way. But then Laurens had not been kept up three nights in a row. Alexander’s body felt like stone as he sank further into the chair, despite all attempts at keeping himself alert. He was completely drained. He kept his focus so heavily on the mechanics of handwriting he didn’t even notice John peeking over his shoulder.

“Correct me if I’m mistaken,” Laurens interjected, “but I believe that translates as ‘blanket’, not ‘hedge’.”

Hamilton stared blankly at his paper. “What?”

“I could be wrong, of course,” said John with a lighthearted air. “You’re the native speaker, after all. But then, perhaps that does translate to ‘hedge’ in French Creole. But I doubt the Parisians interned to use that vernacular.”

Alexander sighed, deflated really, looking at the mistranslated word - words actually, because a thorough glance at the paragraph showed multiple egregious errors. With a pathetic groan, he crumbled the paper, mumbling, “Great, now I’ll have to start all over again.” But when he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, John stopped his hand.

“I don’t think you’ll be of much use as a translator right now, my dear. Go ahead to bed. I can finish these.”

Hamilton shook his head, and rubbed his eyes harder. He even pinched the sensitive skin under his jaw in an effort to jolt himself to sobriety. “No. General Washington will notice they’ll be only in your handwriting. He’ll accuse me of laziness.” And he would be damned before he let that happen.

“Clearly nothing is further from the truth,” Laurens protested, scooting his chair closer to his friend’s. “Look at you. You’re practically drooling from slumber all over the correspondence.”

Pouting indignantly, Alexander tried to be offended by this observation, but found he was too tired for wit. “He’ll reprimand me,” was all he could muster.

The darkness masked Laurens as he rolled his eyes. Really, he thought, Alexander had a bad habit of magnifying Washington’s temper out of proportion. But he knew any comment on that would only set off his friend’s prickly mood and have him sulking, and he did not want to be reminded that he might have been on the receiving end of Washington’s graces without having earned them by any merit other than his birth. “How about I translate while you take a nap to clear your head? I’ll wake you in an hour so you can rewrite in your own hand, so then we can both retire to bed.”

Through the fog clouding his brain, Alexander could find no excellent rebuttal to this proposal. So he muttered simply, “Okay,” and handed John the letter he had been working from.

Before Laurens was finished dipping his pen in the inkwell, Hamilton’s head slumped against his shoulder. John softly kissed the top of his head before diligently continuing his work, with only his friend’s soft breathing for company.


End file.
